The bombing had started without warning. Radar screens showed nothing. Oshima had been making a personal inspection of the radar facility when the attack started, and she could see the screens for herself when she felt the shock of the first impact.
There was absolutely nothing on the radar — not even a hint or a shadow.
Artillery? Was the Mexican Army making a move at last? Chiapas was relatively quiet, so maybe they thought now was the time to make a move.
Yet someone would have warned them. True, Quintana was dead, but they still had plenty of informants in place. Someone would have told them if the Mexicans were planning anything. Anyway, could the Mexicans have penetrated the plateau in strength without being detected?
Impossible.
The bunker rocked again and then again. The lights flickered and went off. Seconds later, emergency power cut in and then the reserve generator started up and full light was restored.
"Bombing, Commander. Heavy bombing," said Jin Endo, one of the few remaining Yaibo members still left alive. The few others were unfortunately not of the first rank. But, despite his youth, Jin Endo was special. He was intelligent, he was quick, and he had proved himself. Above all, he was loyal. Jin Endo would be useful.
Colonel Carranza had been General Barragan's second in command. His loyalty was based on nothing more than the stark reality that he had no place to go.
He would fight if it came to that. But this was Mexico. The Americans might conceivably bomb Tecuno if requested by the Mexican government, but they would never send in ground troops. Vietnam, Lebanon, Somalia, and the U.S. media had seen to that. Casualties were not politically acceptable.
"She's right," said Carranza grimly. "Those are bombs, and no radar warning means Stealth fighters — which means the Americans."
"Activate the monitors," said Oshima.
The command bunker exercised its command-and-control function through a network of deeply buried landlines and video monitors. The most important link was to the supergun valley. Oshima could fire the weapon from the command bunker. It was a simple matter of inserting two keys and flicking a small switch. Quintana used to be the primary key holder, but he no longer featured in the firing solution. Both keys were now around Oshima's neck.
The bank of a dozen monitors came on stream. They were on permanently during daylight hours, but in darkness they were activated only as needed to preserve the batteries on their night-vision equipment. The terrorist troops did not have night-vision devices except in key points, but a limited number of the long-lens monitor cameras were equipped with them.
As Oshima watched, one of the heavily fortified perimeter positions erupted in a massive yellow and pink blast. She could see bodies and weapon parts sail skyward and rain down. Blast followed blast with such frequency that one shock ran into another and the vibrations of the bunker on its hydraulic mounts were continuous. With each explosion, the destruction mounted.
"Do a perimeter scan," said Oshima.
The monitors followed a preset pattern. Portion after portion of the external perimeter was illuminated, but she could see nothing. If there was going to be an external attack, there would be some sign at this stage, even if it was only incoming artillery fire.
"Bring up the Devil's Footprint," said Oshima, "and let me speak to the supergun commander."
The link with the Devil's Footprint was by fiber-optic cable, with multiple redundancy built in. The images came up immediately.
As she looked, Oshima felt a surge of exhilaration. The supergun valley was not being attacked. Somehow, she suspected, the American must know what she had and they were afraid to act directly against the weapon in case they set it off. They were strong, incredibly strong, but they were vulnerable.
"Commander, look," said Carranza. "Look at the radar."
The screens had been blank. Now, suddenly, the radar silhouettes of dozens of approaching aircraft could be seen. The speeds were slow. These were not fighter bombers. These were transport planes. Even for transports they were flying slowly.
"Paratroops," breathed Carranza. "Incredible! Lightly armed paratroops. What a target! We'll slaughter them in the air and we'll slaughter them on the ground. When they jump, their air cover will have to cease and then we'll get them. Thank God for General Barragan's foresight."
Most of Madoa airfield's eighty-nine fixed weapons positions had been either destroyed or badly damaged. However, that was of limited significance. The positions were lightly manned and were primarily decoys.
The real defenses were buried. They included a heavily armored mechanized force and a hand surface-to-air held missile unit. The SAMs had been trained to regard their main enemy as the helicopter, but lumbering C130s traveling at much the same speed would be an even easier target.
"Shall I give the order, Commander?" said Carranza to Oshima.
Oshima waited until the lead aircraft were within visual range and showing up on the monitors. Carranza had been right. The bombing had virtually stopped. Another few seconds.
Suddenly she could see black dots falling from the aircraft and then parachutes opening.
"Now!" she said.
Carranza spoke into his microphone. From bunkers and tunnels all over the airfield, aircraft-killing teams erupted and took up position in prepared fighting holes.
* * * * *
Twenty thousand feet up, an air force C141 command-and-control aircraft circled and monitored the unfolding battle below.
Inside the spacious cargo bay of the aircraft, slide-in communications modules housed a combined services team. Data was being fed in from AWACS and JSTARS aircraft and from a host of other sources, including Special Forces A-teams that were monitoring a chain of lookout posts around the perimeter.
The closest monitoring was being carried out by a Delta unit who were actually inside the terrorist base. They HAHOed into the center of Madoa Air Base under cover of the opening assault fires and were now concealed on the roof of the main hangar and in the control tower.
They had assailed the control tower expecting it to be fully manned, but in fact it was empty. The occupants had had little to do since most of their air assets were destroyed in the microlight raid, and as soon as the first bombs had dropped they had headed for a bunker. Delta had the control tower to themselves.
It commanded a perfect view of the terrorist air base, and even with its windows blown in by the blasts of the initial bombing, it was an ideal observation point.
Delta troopers concealed on the hangar roof four hundred meters away regarded their colleagues in the tower with some envy. They did not know much about the bird life on the Tecuno plateau, but whatever was there had seemed to produce copiously and to regard the roof as its dumping ground.
The soldiers were lying in years of accumulated bird shit. It made the going hazardous and the smell vile. It might have been funny, except that the second man to land on the roof had slipped on the mess and broken his neck. Lifeless, he had been unable to stop himself and his body had slid over the edge to have several feet below the parapet. He had been hauled back by his parachute harness without being seen and now lay in a gully temporarily out of sight and mind.
Colonel Dave Palmer, the 82nd's divisional executive officer, was the senior military man in the C141, and he regarded the unfolding developments with a blend of concern, fascination, and frustration. If military logic had had anything to do with it, the Commanding General would have been in the command-and-control aircraft. It was the location with the best position from which to direct the battle.
However, there were some situations where immediate military logic did not come into it and overall unit pride was considered more important. In the 82nd officers led from the front, and that meant the General Mike Gannon jumped at the head of his troops.
Palmer sweated as he watched the terrorist base transform itself. Within five minutes of the cessation of the bombing, dozens of new fighting positions had appeared as top cover was pulled away,
and there looked to be several hundred smaller fighting holes.
For the moment, his focus was entirely on antiaircraft defenses, particularly SAMS and heavy machine guns. Data flowed in, and after it was plotted and assigned a targeting number, the mission was passed to a killing team.
Palmer was soon convinced that virtually all the hidden antiaircraft defenses had now been plotted, but the final test was about to come. Any missiles or gun positions still hidden were certain to be revealed when the attacking aircraft were actually overhead. Far below him he watched the first flight approach the airfield. The radar showed them flying low, straight, and level, as they had to do to effect an accurate drop.
The approach to a drop zone was always the most dangerous part of an airborne operation. For those brief few moments, the aircraft were exposed and vulnerable and the paratroopers inside — laden with the tools of killing though they were — were entirely helpless.
As he watched, missiles streaked up from the airfield and first one and then another and then most of the first flight were hit. Explosions lit up the sky and pieces of flaming aircraft cascaded toward the ground.
He felt ill as he watched. In his mind he was hooked up, ready to jump. He could see the jump light switch from red to green and feel the slap of the jumpmaster on his shoulder. "GO!"
He shook his head and looked across to his air force opposite number.
"Now?" said the colonel.
"Now," said Palmer.
A single phrase went out to the prepositioned air assets. Two aircraft had been assigned to each air defense position, and there were further aircraft in reserve to pick up any slack. Kiowa Warriors hovered hidden behind rocks or in folds in the ground, only their mast sights protruding.
"ACTIVATE BARRACUDA! ACTIVATE BARRACUDA!"
* * * * *
"The radar screens have all gone blank again," said Carranza. "I don't understand it. A moment ago we could see the aircraft coming in two by two like cattle into a slaughterhouse — and now there is nothing."
"We are being jammed, sir," said one of the operators at the console.
"Then why didn't they jam earlier?" said Carranza. "Why allow us to see their aircraft as they approach and then jam us after most of them have been destroyed? It makes no sense."
Oshima was looking at a blank monitor. The cameras overlooking the supergun valley showed total normality. Elsewhere, the airfield flickered with dozens of fires from falling aircraft debris. As she looked, she could see her troops moving out from their fighting positions to examine the wreckage and round up any paratroopers left alive.
Oddly enough, she could not see any parachutes on the ground, and there certainly should have been some there by now. Were they set on fire by falling debris? Had they fallen outside the perimeter? Well, it was an oddity but of no major concern. It was probably more to do with the cameras. They gave a good overall picture of the airfield, but they were no substitute for direct vision.
Carranza had been listening to reports from the units on the surface. Initial reports were vastly encouraging and confirmed what the monitors had shown. The antiaircraft crews had enjoyed major success. Nine out of the initial dozen aircraft had been totally destroyed in a couple of minutes.
Carranza tried to remember how many paratroops fit into a C130. Something like sixty, he thought. The total destroyed equated to the best part of a battalion.
His, Carranza's, troops were beating the Americans! What all their might and technology, they could bleed too.
All the monitors except those showing the supergun flickered and then went dull.
The communications operator's face went gray as a further report came in. "Major Carranza," he said. "We have a report from Captain Alonzo. He'd like to speak to you."
Carranza took the phone. "Major," said Alonzo's familiar voice. He was one of the best battalion commanders. Imaginative and cool under pressure. He never flapped.
"Major," said Alonzo dully. "The aircraft that we destroyed..."
"Yes," said Carranza. "A magnificent job. Absolutely magnificent."
There was a pause at the end of the phone. Alonzo was breathing heavily, as if he had been running or was completely stressed out. Either way, it was out of character. Alonzo was calm to the point of deliberateness.
"Yes, Captain," said Carranza impatiently. "What is it?"
"Major, they're drones," said Alonzo. "They're all RPVs."
Carranza's hand holding the phone fell to his side.
"What?" said Oshima impatiently.
Carranza whipped the phone back up to his ear. "Captain, GET BACK UNDER COVER NOW! NOW!"
"CARRANZA!" shouted Oshima. "WHAT IS GOING ON?"
"We've been tricked," said Carranza. "Those aircraft were decoys. Remotely piloted vehicles. Models."
"The radar picture?" said Oshima incredulously.
"We saw what they wanted us to see," said Carranza. "They've been playing with us."
The module suddenly shook, and this time the explosions were virtually continuous. Oshima tried the phones. All were silent except for the supergun. Everywhere else was shut down. The shaking continued. The bombardment seemed without end.
* * * * *
Colonel Dave Palmer checked the targeting display.
Combat at this level was goddamn clinical. You identified targets, selected the best tool to handle the job in much the same manner as choosing a golf club for a tricky shot, and then passed the chosen the details.
The flight leaders muttered, "Roger that, Big Daddy," and that was that.
Minutes — sometimes seconds — later, men died. Some quickly. Some slowly and horribly. The scale of the destruction was vast, the human impact impossible to truly comprehend.
But this was the reality of war. This was what he trained for and this was what he was good at. From 20,000 feet, he could not see the blood or hear the screams. So why was it so much worse at this remove?
"Coffee, sir?" said an air force crewman.
Palmer shook his head. To be sipping coffee while Mike Gannon was slugging it out on the ground seemed wrong.
"Take some," said his air force colleague. The man was looking at him with concern. Palmer nodded and took it.
"The fast movers are out," said a chief at a monitor. "The count is good. One F16 hit, but the pilot reckons he can make it to Arkono. SAMs and triple-A pretty much wiped. The Airborne are going in. Spectres and A10s are working the margins. The Kiowas say the Fourth of July is like nothing compared to what's going on down there. It's a field of fires, sirs."
And the division is jumping right into the middle, thought Palmer. All the goddamn way. Which is the way it should be. But why am I up here out of harm's way when friends are fighting and dying?
Targeting was approached as methodically as possible, but it was an imperfect world.
Palmer had switched his focus to enemy armor deployment when the only heavy missile battery the Barracuda strikes had missed got a lock on the lumbering C141 and blew its left wing off at the root.
With fire spreading throughout the fuselage, the doomed aircraft spiraled erratically toward the ground below.
Desperately, Palmer scrabbled for his ‘chute. There wasn't time to put it on. He broke out of the module and ran for a side door.
It was open. The rear air crew had already jumped.
Holding on to his parachute pack for dear life, he threw out into the safety of nothing.
Where was the D ring? He could not find it.
Above, at 23,000 feet, the reserve command-and-control aircraft had taken over. You built redundancy into airborne missions.
The new airborne command was fully operational before Palmer hit the ground.
26
Fitzduane let his rucksack drop away on its line as he flared in.
The ruck would hit first and he would land lighter, but that was not going to be much use if he landed smack in front of a terrorist bunker.
It was not an academic thought. He was used to
the more maneuverable rectangular ram air ‘chute, and the circular T15 the airborne used was markedly less responsive.
He had remembered too late and now was going to pay the penalty. What a fucking stupid, unprofessional error.
He hit hard and then skidded onto his back. Pain shot through his body and then he smashed into something soft and yielding. Without question, it was the worst landing he had made in he hated to think of how many jumps. He was lying on — or half in — an eviscerated body. Whose side it belonged to it was impossible to tell.
Flame stabbed over his head and turned into green tracer. The noise was deafening.
With horror he realized he was lying directly under the firing aperture of the bunker. The only good news was that the gun crew inside had been temporarily blinded by his parachute wrapping itself around the emplacement.
There was a surge of flame as the heavy machine gun fired again through the folds of fabric and his parachute ignited.
Fitzduane rolled to one side, turning over again and again, and as he did so an AT4 rocket flamed out of the darkness and hit the bunker just below the aperture. The structure exploded.
Figures stumbled out of a trench at the back of the bunker. Silhouetted against the sudden flame of an A10 missile strike on the perimeter, he could see the curved magazines of AK-47s.
There were six terrorists in the group. Two seemed dazed, but the others carried themselves as if they would like to find out who had blown up their home.
Fitzduane's M16 was still in its padded jump case. He was of the opinion that this might be a great idea to avoid unnecessary damage while training, but as a combat technique he thought it sucked. He was going to die because some bean counter objected to wear and tear on the weaponry. If he got back, he was going to find whoever ordered this idiot shit and do something unfriendly to them.
He pulled a Willie Pete from his map pocket, pulled the pin, hoped the fuse had been set correctly, and waited three long seconds.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 43
